


Wanting

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Child Abuse, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Riding, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Dave really does think he wants the attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanting

There are times when you want it.

Of course, there are almost always times when you like it. He makes sure of that. Whether you're jerking him, sucking him off, letting him between your legs, he always gets you in a position where he can easily touch you. He'll wrap his thick, warm fingers around your prick and stroke, squeeze, work you up. Even if you're not hard; even when you're crying. He knows how to play your treacherous body by heart, loves to hear the groans and gasps you make when he gets you off against your will, says you get tight as the first time he had you when you cum. 

Sometimes, there are also times when you need it. When you've fucked up, made him mad. When he cuts off all contact, doesn't speak to you, punishes you by not even acknowledging you exist. The novelty of actually getting the break you so desperately desire is tainted by the knowledge that you fucked up, and so diminishes quickly. He hardly ever looked at you when you were a kid, only touched you when he had to. Most of his parenting was done by proxy through Cal and you think that it's because you weren't fuckable.  
The times that he gives you the cold shoulder are the times that you're reminded of your true worth. The long silences are filled with the knowledge that you're only as good as how willing you are to put out. That's when you need his hands on you, need to feel him touching you so that you know you're a good boy, useful, worth keeping around. You apologies are always made with your throat around his dick, the bowing and bobbing of your head telling him you're sorry for being an ungrateful little shit as he reclines above you, monolithic and impassive. 

There are times, however, when you do want it. Actually want it. When you wake up from a nightmare, hard and aching for his touch, and _you_ make the first move on _him._ There's always a gloating look on his face when you come to him, when he can see the bulge in your pyjamas or the tent in your boxers. Both of you know it's because he trained you well, made you crave his dick, rewired you so that it's only him. Only he is allowed to fuck you; only he is who you can get off to; only he is who you want to touch you, and hold you, and please, please, _please_ look at me. It makes you feel ashamed, because you know wanting it now means you still want it later, even if you cry and struggle and choke down your screams of pain. The barely perceptible shift in his expression tells you that it makes him feel triumphant, and you know it's for the same reasons. When you present yourself to him, hot and hard and willing, it means he's won. 

You always crawl into his lap first. His body is a cradle for yours, still so much bigger than you. Even without the context of school, you know you're stunted for your age. Fifteen and you still haven't grown out of most of the clothes you had when he started fucking you. Last year your butt started busting out the backs of your pants, but you still haven't gotten any taller, your shirts even sometimes feel looser. Petite and skinny, with baby fat still tenaciously clinging to your face and puberty only bothering to grace you with a plump little bubble butt, you feel at times betrayed by your own body. It's as if it's conforming to his taste, staying young and tender and fuck-worthy. Your body know its place better than you do most of the time; and even though you hate yourself for it, when you mount is lap, horny and desperate, and feel his hands slide down to cup your cushy ass, you're almost grateful.  
He never kisses you, but for these times when you so hungrily want it. You slide up against his broad chest, mould your body into the contours of his. He's strong, solid, and hands that could easily break you grip you greedily instead. He'll let you crane your neck up, mouth assaulting yours when your lips brush each other. You pour the residual terror, paranoia of your nightmares into his kisses to be consumed. His mouth is all-devouring. When things started four years ago, when he would run his lips over every inch of your body but your face, you used to think he was trying to eat you alive. To this day, you still feel it, if only more abstractly. Every hungry suckle of your warm flesh, every possessive bite is a reminder that you belong to him, you do not exist outside this apartment and you exist only for him. When he kisses you on the mouth, when you want him so bad, it feels like you're killing your soul. 

When you want it, he keeps his hand threaded in your hair. A reminder that he's still in charge. The hold is different from when you suck his dick and his hand weighs heavy on the back of your head to guide you. Fingers twist and curl locks of your hair, tugging in the way that he knows gets you off, knows will make you grind your hips down against his. His gloves lay warm against your skin, and when he gets impatient, he'll drag you backwards onto your knees by the scruff of your neck.  
You get to undress him when you're the one who wants it. He always makes you strip, unless you're being petulant and he has to tear the clothes off you, so there's nothing special in that. But when you actually come begging for it, you're the one who's responsible for knocking his cap to the floor, you're the one who has to shimmy down his body and peel his shirt off. He'll kick back passively and watch you kneel between his legs, working his fly open. A shift of his hips is all the help you get.  
Whenever you want it, you have to work for it. If he isn't hard when you get his clothes off, it's your duty to work him up. Only your mouth is allowed. He'll pin your wrists if he sees your hands moving to help, leaving you awkward and imbalanced as his dick swells in your throat. 

Every time you want it, he lets you ride him. It's up to you to straddle him, slick him up, work yourself down his length. Just approaching him isn't enough – you have to really prove how bad you want his cock.  
Fitting him inside you is still difficult for your size difference, but it's not like before. It's not like when you were too small, and would scream and cry because it always felt like he was going to split you in two. Now you know how to take him. Now you know to relax when you feel the fat head of his cock breach you, instead of seizing up in pain and fear. You know you have to breathe when you ease down on his thick shaft, not let the feel of hot flesh filling you almost to breaking send you into panicky little gasps like a trapped animal. 

When you want it, having him leant back against the propped up futon is best. You can brace your arms against the cushion behind him, give yourself more leverage to work his dick. Every upstroke presses your narrow chest against the solid wall of his; every thrust back down is guided by the wide, leather-clad hand he keeps on your rear, clutching, squeezing, spreading you wide so that you can fill yourself with his cock right down to the root.  
Straddling his lap, you can find the right leverage to slide his whole length in and out of you with quick, hard snaps of your hips. The wet, greedy, sucking noises your ass makes when you fuck yourself on him like that always make you feel like a boy from one of the porn clips he used to make you watch with him, his hand down the front of your pants. You'll groan accordingly, pant and grunt and moan at the feel of impaling yourself on his hot flesh, and he'll call you his good little whore.  
In this position, if your eagerness wears you out, you can settle all the way down on his dick, roll your hips and feel him churning your insides. You can nuzzle your face into this neck and smell that mix of cologne and sweat that makes you feel safe and small and ashamed and afraid and aroused. If you waste too much time inhaling his scent, just grinding in his lap, the warm leather of his glove will smack your ass, send little shocks that make you clench his dick and remind you to keep working him. 

When you want it is the only time he's your daddy. When you ride him you're such a good boy; you take that cock; you love your daddy's cock, don't you; you're daddy's good boy, aren't you. He spanks you, making you sob and gasp into his mouth as his lips moving against yours, telling you how good it feels when your ass squeezes your daddy's fat cock like that. You fuck yourself desperately on him, clutching the futon, digging your nails into his shoulders. Your mouth is as traitorous as the rest of your body, begging please daddy, please daddy, more, make me good, make me good, make me your good boy.  
When he's your daddy, you're Dave. When you're good, such a good boy, you get a name. You're not kiddo, little man, little bro; you're not even selfish little shit, ungrateful brat, smart-mouthed whore. When you're a good boy and ride your daddy's cock, you get to be Dave. Dave who's doing so good, just like that; Dave who knows how to work that cock, knows just what it likes; Dave who's daddy's sweet little thing. And when you get to be Dave, you can cum without being touched. Your spine can arch, and your hips can pound that dick into your needy hole, and you can shout for how good it feels. The tightening of your balls, the clench of your muscles around his cock, the rush of your prick twitching and splattering jizz over his abs – they can feel good because you're good, you're such a good boy, Dave, you're daddy's good little boy.  
When you want it, you can usually make him cum when you do. If you can't, he'll pull out, lay you down on the futon and jerk off on your face. You almost prefer when he does. It gives you an excuse to keep your eyes clenched shut, and the inevitable tears on your cheeks mix with his cum. 

You always cry after you want it. He cleans up, slides his briefs and jeans back on, flips the TV on and goes back to being Bro. You lay beside him on your back, naked and covered in jizz, tears silent as you return to being kiddo, nameless and invisible. He doesn't even tease you for crying any more, he's so used to it. Sometimes he tells you it's why you'll always be a bitch, but usually he just ignores you. After all, it's your job to pull yourself together when you were the one who wanted it. It's your job otherwise too, but noting that doesn't get your shit back under control, or get you cleaned up any faster.  
After you want it, you retreat to the shower. You hate yourself for wanting it, for showing him he's right, and try to scald the knowledge out of your skin. Sometimes, when you're done, you hobble back to your room, cry more into the muffle of your bed. Sometimes Bro offers to smoke you out, and the two of you watch TV or play video games in stoned silence.  
If he's feeling generous, he'll rub the back of your neck, or ruffle your hair, and let you curl up into the side of his chest. He'll wrap an arm around your shoulders, strong and heavy, and you'll press your ear to the sound of his heart, knowing that this is your reward for being cooperative, for being a good boy. Your head will rise and fall with his chest and you wonder if next time, tomorrow or maybe even later in the evening, he'll force you to like it, or if you'll want it, or need it. When you're curled up against him, you can never remember how long ago it was that you forgot wondering if you'd ever escape.


End file.
